What of Friends, Indeed
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: Novel-Thrawn and Rebels-Thrawn are very different. There is no question that in Rebels, Thrawn favours a crueler, harsher command. Eli Vanto returns from the Ascendancy a year after departing, to find a very changed Thrawn. Eli has questions. He may not like the answers. Oneshot, gen. Thrawn novel and SWR both referenced.


**A/N: This story is set a week after the battle of Atollon.**

* * *

 _What of Friends, Indeed_

 _Eirian Erisdar_

* * *

There was always something about _Lambda_ -class shuttles that didn't quite sit well with Eli Vanto.

Perhaps it is the fact that while most Lambdas are used to ferry troops or personnel, they also conveniently double as prisoner transports; every Imperial officer is well-used to seeing even the most toughened of Space-pirates tremble when the distinctive triangular silhouette of a Lambda shuttle settles down before them.

The harnesses can be locked down, certainly, transforming into prisoner bindings rather than simple crash webbing. And there are no viewports – not like the soaring, panoramic views of a star-destroyer bridge.

But the disquiet that flickers through Eli's thoughts are not only of this shuttle – perhaps the environment is simply a reflection of the greater battle within his mind.

The Lambda shudders slightly as it drops out of hyperspace.

Eli cannot look through the solid durasteel walls, but he knows that far above the shuttle is the insignia of a many-limbed Chimaera, about to swallow the shuttle whole.

It is strange. Not so long ago, he would have considered it an embrace for a returning warrior.

But he has read the reports given to him – Thrawn is anything but lacking in keeping him updated about the goings-on of the Imperial Navy – and what he has read has…disturbed him.

This Grand Admiral, who brings whole peoples under his control – Ryloth, places further afield; kills factory workmen to make an example – setting a workman on a faulty bike the man has built himself, then edging up the speedometer until the bike explodes, _and the man with it_ ; allows an innocent Navy officer to be imprisoned, brutally questioned, and almost executed in order to continue to deceive a Rebel spy – is this Grand Admiral truly the Thrawn Eli knows so well?

Eli cannot reconcile the Thrawn he knows – with his faint smile, his care for his subordinates, and his horror at the massacre of Batonn – with the Thrawn that he reads about, now.

This emotionless, ruthless Chiss warrior, like the blue-blooded, ice-veined monsters of the Wild Space legends; cunning warriors without compassion.

But this is Thrawn. Surely this cannot be all there is to the story; he must have a plan. He always has.

Eli closes his eyes. In the duffel by his feet, there is a journal, kept dry and clean in a waterproof cover.

Thrawn is not… _Thrawn_ , without compassion. Had he not written in reference to Batonn that sometimes victory is too much for a warrior to bear? And Botajef – had Thrawn not gone to whatever lengths he could to avoid war, and succeeded?

Had _Eli_ not been there with him, one step behind his shoulder on the bridge of the _Chimaera_ , from the moment she had been given to them?

The _Chimaera._

The roar of the repulsors quiet into a gentle hum as the Lambda settles onto the hangar floor.

And Eli is home.

The ramp descends with an efficient whirr – the smallest of details are stringently monitored on the _Chimaera_ , as they always have been – and then Eli is faced with the familiar view of one of the star-destroyer's smaller hangars, situated precisely halfway between the bridge and the officers' quarters, and so most favoured by Thrawn whenever he had reason to leave or return.

Disappointment rises minutely inside his chest when the small welcoming party comes into view, stood sharply a few paces from the end of the ramp – Faro and a few other officers. Not a trace of blue-skinned Chiss in sight.

Eli pushes down on the disappointment, masters it with a grudging twist.

He cannot expect Thrawn to come and greet him himself. It is not traditional, and even less procedural.

But Thrawn had never been one to adhere to those two things.

The doubt that flickers at the edge of his consciousness rackets up another notch.

All the welcoming party are clad in familiar Imperial grey, like the uniform he wears now – new, freshly-pressed, with even a new rank-plaque, Commander's squares gleaming. Eli can't quite decide whether he likes it. It makes him look fresh. _Shiny_ , like the old Clone-Wars-era speak.

He nudges away this train of thought, as well. Eli is not a Coruscant-born commissioned officer; he has risen to where he is by loyalty and hard work, and nothing else.

"Welcome back, Commander Vanto," Faro says, with a genuine smile.

"Thank you, ma'am," Eli replies, glancing at her rank plaque. "I see it's _Commodore_ Faro now. Congratulations."

"Thank you." Faro turns, and begins to walk. The sharp clacking of uniform boots against durasteel echoes through the hangar – something so familiar and constant, but somehow strange after a year afield. Eli follows with acute awareness of how his own boot-steps mirror the echo.

"The Grand Admiral has asked to see you in his office immediately, unless you had imperative matters to take care of upon your arrival," Faro says, as they turn into a corridor.

"I don't," Eli confirms.

"Good. I'll take you to him now."

It is strange, being let through the corridors of the _Chimaera_ like this; there are no shackles on his hands, and no danger in the easy, professional pace of any of his escort.

But this is the _Chimaera_ , Thrawn's flagship.

The closest thing Eli has to a home.

His parents' house, far away on the edges of Wild Space, is certainly nothing but a faded, pre-academy memory, now.

And then suddenly there is the door to Thrawn's office and training room, with a stormtrooper standing at attention before it, as always; Eli hands over his code cylinder, and a nod of thanks to Commodore Faro later, he is on the other side of the door.

Alone.

His duffel feels incredibly heavy in his hand as he walks the short distance down the corridor to the office door proper.

It opens with a smooth hiss, like an unknown reptile tasting the air.

And there, standing with his back towards Eli, framed on either side by an etched mural of two leaping ysalamiri – a white-uniformed Chiss, with his shoulders held back, regal. Surprisingly, a long cape flows down from the gold epaulets, covering the long-fingered blue hands no doubt clasped behind his back.

Eli finds himself smiling, despite his doubts. "White suits you, sir," he says, by way of breaking the silence.

Thrawn turns in place, and for a moment there, Eli sees that same familiar faint smile – the smallest uptick of the edge of his lips, where others would only see the harsh note of authority – but then it is smoothed away, and there is only the cool expression of command.

"Commander Vanto," Thrawn says, voice as smooth and unassuming as ever. "Welcome back."

"Thank you." Eli raises an eyebrow. "I didn't take you for the kind to wear a cape."

Thrawn waves him into a chair, even as he himself remains standing. "I must greet a group of visiting dignitaries in less than an hour," he says. "Their culture indicates that all upper-ranked officers must wear cloaks such as these to indicate their rank. As my uniform could be modified with an appropriate addition, I thought it would make a favourable impression."

The Thrawn Eli remembers would have been smiling as he said this, faint, longsuffering amusement rising to the surface in the privacy of this office.

The Thrawn he faces now has no such smile.

Eli steps forward, places his duffle by an empty seat. The chairs are as uncomfortable as he remembers. He tries to relax as much as possible, anyhow. He has a feeling the coming conversation will not be pleasant.

One slim blue finger keys a code into the desk console. The muted lights dim for a moment, as the office secures itself for private conversation.

There was a time this would have given Eli a sense of security; just he and Thrawn, speaking of matters the Empire had better not hear. Eli had been confident, at that time, of Thrawn's trust in him.

And he had trusted Thrawn in turn, completely.

 _And now?_

"Is there anything you wish to report, between your last transmission and the present?" Thrawn begins.

"No. I left the Ascendancy shortly after. There's nothing new to note."

"Good."

"I've finished the reports you sent ahead for me to read," Eli says. He pauses. "A lot has happened, in a year."

Thrawn flicks crimson eyes over him, once. "You seem troubled."

"There are some details I would like clarified from your perspective," Eli says, choosing his words carefully.

"Then specify," Thrawn says, in that efficient, almost-blunt way of his. "I will describe said events with as much accuracy as I am able."

"Why did you make an example of the man at the Lothal Imperial Army Complex?"

"The people of Lothal are stubborn, like the rock which they mine," Thrawn replies as he steps lightly over to softly glowing hologram. The sculpture projected there is all right-angles and thick beams, solid, unyielding. "As such, they required a more…severe form of persuasion. It is regrettable. But should I have allowed the tampering of Imperial arms to continue, it is more than likely that most of the factory hands would have been executed. Governor Pryce does not take kindly to sabotage."

Eli remains silent for a long moment, watching him.

When Eli does not speak, Thrawn looks back at him with a smooth turn of his head, blue chin tilting over gold epaulets.

 _Predatory._

Eli has used that word to refer with Thrawn in his thoughts before, certainly.

But never in connection with Eli himself.

Eli wonders how many of his own rapidly-coalescing conclusions are truly based off logic. His emotions are certainly not anywhere near balanced.

"Commander Vanto?" Thrawn prompts.

"I see," Eli manages. His voice is not as steady as he would like, but he will have to make do. "And the civilian casualties on Ryloth?"

Thrawn's lips thin in memory. "Ryloth, while a victory, had not the best of results. I had anticipated the civilian uprising, but the Rebels supplied them with weaponry beyond what we had heard in preliminary reports. In an effort to prevent further bloodshed, I authorized ground forces to be more forceful than previously planned."

 _Preventing executions. Preventing further bloodshed._

It sounds almost…good, to the untrained ear.

But Eli is nowhere near untrained, courtesy of Thrawn himself.

"One more question," Eli murmurs. "Lieutenant Yogar Lyste. He was captured in suspicion of being a Rebel spy."

"Correct," Thrawn says, watching Eli with undivided attention, now. His red eyes gleam brightly in the half-light.

"You knew he wasn't."

"That is also correct."

"But his interrogation and imprisonment was allowed to go forward," Eli says, accent slipping through even stronger than usual, now.

Thrawn remains quiet for a moment, back straight, hands behind his back. The very picture of an Imperial Grand Admiral.

"I am surprised you do not see the necessity of fooling the true Rebel spy into thinking he had escaped unnoticed," Thrawn says, quite calmly. "I should have thought the logic clear. Unless the report was worded inadequately."

"I understand that completely," Eli says, fighting to keep his voice from rising, now. His hands twist around each other, elbows braced on his knees as he leans forward, looking up at Thrawn. "But there wasn't a need to truly interrogate Lieutenant Lyste. Questioning, of course – but _interrogation?_ Incarceration?"

"Agent Kallus was an extremely resourceful member of the Imperial Security Bureau," Thrawn says. "Do not doubt that should less have been done to Lieutenant Lyste than what was reported, Agent Kallus would have noted the inconsistency and attempted to flee." Those dark blue eyebrows flicker, once. "He would have been unsuccessful, but I would have then found much more difficulty in discerning the location of their Rebel base. There was no guarantee interrogation would have revealed information, considering Agent Kallus's Bureau training."

A long pause.

"You interrogated him yourself, when you did capture him," Eli says. It is not a question.

"Yes," Thrawn confirms. "Before he escaped."

"Where is Lieutenant Lyste, now?" Eli asks quietly, not looking at Thrawn. Or anything at all, really.

"He was honourably discharged," Thrawn says. "His health was deemed insufficient for continued service. He has been returned to his homeworld with a sufficient military retirement pension."

"And how old is Lieutenant Lyste, exactly?" Eli continues. His voice sounds odd, even to himself.

Thrawn tilts his head. "Twenty-five standard, I believe. You will find his full file in the datapad given to you."

 _Twenty-five standard._

Eli tastes bile.

Thrawn takes a step towards him. "You seem distressed."

"Maybe I am," Eli whispers, so softly he almost imagines that he did not say it, but thought it, hurling the thought towards his friend's ever-calm face.

His friend.

 _But what of friends?_

What of friends, indeed.

"I think I might have a problem," Eli says, looking up. He is sure there is probably some betraying moisture in his eyes, now, but he wants to look Thrawn in his eye as he says this.

"Elaborate," Thrawn says, crimson gaze flickering over his dampening eyes, the hands Eli clenches on his armrests – "Then we will solve it together."

"No, I–" Eli passes a hand over his face. "I didn't phrase that correctly. I have a problem with _this_."

Thrawn gazes at him, steadily.

And then: "Explain."

"I've aware I've been gone for over a year," Eli says, striving to remain grounded. "But the things you've just explained to me, Thrawn," – and here he catches himself, the name having slipped out from a mind too jumbled to separate thought from speech – "I can't accept them."

Thrawn's eyes had moved minutely when Eli had spoken his name, but he is now impassive, quietly calculating, as he always is. He crosses his arms, and one long finger taps at his chin.

"What is unacceptable about them?" he inquires, as though this were a simple discussion – not a rending of a world, the destruction of minds.

Or one mind. Eli's.

Eli feels strangely detached from all this, like the man sitting in the chair is someone else entirely, and he is watching from an outsider's perspective.

"Killing civilians," he says, voice quickening. "Torturing an innocent officer for the crimes of another. Cruelty." Eli glances away, sharply. "I would have never thought you cruel," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"The situation is quite different now as compared when you left for the Ascendency." Thrawn's stare seems to have doubled in intensity, now – quite a feat, and to anyone else, probably incredibly frightening.

Eli is not anyone else.

"That is what an Imperial officer would say," Eli says, quietly. "But you were never just an Imperial officer."

"My role requires certain sacrifice on my part to maintain the deception. You are aware of it."

"I am aware," Eli replies, tonelessly. "But then, I thought there was a line. Values you would not compromise, even for the sake of your mission."

Thrawn does not reply.

Eli stands, walks up to Thrawn – the Chiss is still taller than him by a considerable margin, but he raises his head to look Thrawn in the eyes. "I don't know," Eli says. "I don't know, anymore."

"What is it you do not know?" Thrawn asks. The emotion is showing more clearly on his face, now. His brows are furrowed. His lips are pressed together.

"Is it that your mission is more important than all else, even innocent life?" Eli says, voice trembling, now. "Or is it that you've forgotten your mission, and even now have become a true pawn of the Emperor?"

"I do not think I have done either," Thrawn says, eyes flashing dangerously, now.

Eli notes, with a detached sort of shock, that he has succeeded in making Thrawn angry.

Astonishing. It is something he had not wished to ever do before, but now that it is done seems the easiest thing in the world.

And then something flickers in Thrawn's eyes, and Eli realises with something akin to wonder that it is not anger at all.

It is fear.

It would be flattering to assume it is fear for the loss of a friend.

How Eli wishes it is fear for a warping of self, instead. A Thrawn with faults admitted and a promise of change, he could work with.

But he knows that is not what is before him.

"You don't regret a single thing you've done since I've left," Eli says, slowly.

Thrawn looks down at him. "No," he says. "As I've taught you before, regret is always eclipsed by–"

Eli punches him across the jaw.

A shocked grunt slips out of blue lips as Thrawn stumbles back against a stone wall graffitied with an orange-red bird of some sort. His cloak crumples around him as he stumbles, falling to the ground.

Liquid scarlet drips down onto the pure white expanse of the imperial uniform, limning the squares of the rank plaque with sanguine paint.

Eli does not know whether to be grateful that Thrawn apparently still trusted him enough after that conversation for his guard to be entirely lowered, or to feel guilty about it.

And then he thinks of Yogar Lyste, and the sentiment flees.

He lowers his hand, knuckles smarting. A quick glance at them reveals they have split open.

Like Thrawn's lip.

Thrawn rises to his feet gracefully, unhurriedly, and presses a fingertip to his lip. It comes away deep, velvet red.

Thrawn meets Eli's gaze again, and those red eyes are unreadable, now; since the midpoint of their years together, Eli had always been able to read at least the most superficial of Thrawn's intentions by his eyes alone, but they are now as closed to him as they are to others.

Eli feels like he is quite ready to weep, now. Or sleep for eternity. To run away from all this.

Thrawn waits for him to speak. Red drips down his chin, down his neck, soaking into the white collar in an irremovable stain.

"This is what I am going to do," Eli says, calmly. Determination has slid over him now, in the absence of a greater purpose.

He had served the Empire under Thrawn. And then Thrawn had told him to go to the Chiss, so he had served the Chiss under Thrawn's orders.

And now he can no longer serve Thrawn, there remains only his next logical step.

 _One logical step after another, in the most unsure of times,_ Thrawn had once told him. _And eventually, a larger picture will emerge._ One brushstroke after another.

"I am going to walk out of this office," Eli says. "And go to the main ventral hangar. I will take a shuttle, and leave the system. If at any point in the process if I am stopped, and told I am under arrest, I will not protest. I will come willingly." He pauses, and a bitter smile flickers across his face. "That depends on whether you'll send someone after me, of course."

Thrawn does not say anything.

Eli crosses over to his duffel, kneels beside it, and withdraws Thrawn's journal, still carefully packed in its waterproof cover.

"This is yours," he says, holding it out to Thrawn.

Thrawn reaches out with an elegant, blood-tipped hand, and places it over the surface of the packet, as though he could feel the words within.

A pause.

"Keep it," Thrawn says. His voice is quite unchanged. "For the sake of the last entry."

Does Eli imagine it, or have Thrawn's eyes dimmed?

Eli feels the first of his tears spill up over the edge of his eyelids.

The journal burns into his hand. He turns vehemently, scoops up his duffel, and strides away. He will not let Thrawn see his tears fall.

Four levels later, in the main hangar, Eli tenses as a stormtrooper patrol passes.

But they pass without giving him a second glance.

Eli chooses a nondescript supply transport – he is not stupid enough to take a Lambda, not without knowing where he will be – and slides heavily into the pilot's seat. Not bothering with pre-flight checks, he tosses his duffle into the copilot's seat, brings the engines up from a cold start, and as soon as he is reasonably sure the repulsors will not fail from their abrupt awakening, shoots out of the hangar.

The journal on the seat beside him has a red fingerprint on its packet front, congealing rapidly in the 'cycled air.

The comm crackles with a sharp order from the bridge communications officer regarding unauthorized departure, but then there is a garbled voice from beyond the range of the comm, and the officer suddenly cuts himself off.

Eli sets the navigation computer to random set of coordinates.

He turns in his seat, a moment before the shuttle jumps.

The _Chimaera_ hangs upon the backdrop of stars, beautiful. Deadly. Home.

With a horrible wrenching of his heart, Eli makes the jump.

* * *

In his private office, Grand Admiral Thrawn allows his fingers to slide off the comm button on his desk. The comm button, like his collar, is stained red, now.

He stands there for a long time. Through the numerous comm-calls, to his desk and his communicator. Through the pounding on his door, when it comes much later.

Even when Commodore Faro's voice filters in from the short corridor, announcing that she is entering, he does not do anything except raise a hand, halting her shocked intake of breath when she sees him.

There is nothing to say.

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 **END**

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 **A/N: After reading the novel the Thrawn in Rebels seemed a little too different. I certainly had doubts whether Eli would approve of SWR Thrawn's methods. This was an exploration of that. Leave a review if you like - for more Thrawn, try _A Maudlin Thing,_ which I've posted to both FFN and my tumblr at** eirianerisdar tumblr com **(replace spaces with dots) and _Coruscanti Chiss_ , or _The Most Beautiful Artwork,_ which I've posted to tumblr. Leave a review if you like!**

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 **EDIT 27/5/2017: A lovely reader and writer,** Mish **,** **has written a perfect postscript to this story, from Thrawn's perspective. Check out her other stories!**

Postscript: Excerpt from Grand Admiral Thrawn's private journals

 _What can sever a friendship?_

 _Time and distance?_

 _Irreconcilable differences?_

 _Betrayal?_

 _Death?_

 _No. Not for a true friend. There may be moments of disagreement, periods of anger, some necessary separation. There may even be an altercation, harsh words exchanged that pierce deeper than any physical blow. But that cannot damage pure, abiding friendship._

 _Not unless one allows it._

 _Friendship cannot be broken by any external source. Only when one chooses to abandon it will it be truly lost._

 _I cannot forsake a friend. Perhaps it is a failing of mine, but I will embrace such a weakness without regret. True friendship is far too priceless to cast aside when the tempests of life threaten to shatter it. When my own actions bring another to the breaking point._

 _Even as I watch him walk away, perhaps forever. As long as he remains true to who he is, to the one I have come to respect, I will be content._

 _Even if I am not happy._

* * *

The brush made a soft scraping sound as Thrawn laid it gently aside. He stared intently at the strokes filling the page spread out on his desk, the stylized Cheunh letters flowing in a swirl of black and red. He had done nothing to blot away the blood that had spilled as he wrote, allowing it to mix with the ink. It was fitting, he thought.

By the time the _Chimaera_ jumped to its next assignment, the words hung framed on the wall beside the door to his private chamber.

He would never forget.

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 **END**


End file.
